All For You
by Slocut
Summary: Dean is alone in the dark, alone with his thoughts, alone in the world. If I owned them...I wouldn't take time to write about it. I might, however, take a few pics.


Dean sat alone in a faded motel room in Alabama. Bottle of Jack Daniels old #7 in his left hand, no glass necessary. He tipped it back and reveled in the burn that would bring him some blessed numbness. He needed that more every day.

Sam was out, doing whatever it was Sam did when they were between cases. Maybe hustling pool, maybe at the library, maybe just wandering around in the dark. He didn't ask and Sam didn't tell.

It was just awful. What had happened to them. For nearly thirty years Dean had taken care of his brother, always put his needs first. From the moment his Dad had put Sammy into his arms with the flames burning behind him Dean had protected his brother with his life. Always Sam was first. It was a part of him.

The years hadn't been kind to the brothers. Their childhood was a long string of monsters, anxiety and beatings, but they had each other. Sam had bolted the first chance he got. Took off for Stanford. Sam wanted no contact, so Dean stayed away and waited. Four years later Dean had no choice but to search for him and when they reunited, Dean had forgiven him.

Sam's demon blood caused debilitating psychic visions, but Dean was there, protecting him from other hunters and from himself. When Sam ended up with a knife in his back, Dean literally sold his soul to bring his little brother back. What else could he do? It was all for Sammy.

When Dean came back from 40 years of torment in hell, he found a brother who was drinking demon blood. Lie after lie he forgave him. His brother literally unleashed Lucifer on the earth... but it was Sam, and he was good, Dean was sure. He forgave him, and they worked together to save the world from ending bloody. Because they were brothers.

Sam saved the world, and when he was gone, Dean had suffered. A year of torment and regrets. Play acting at a normal life. But Sam wasn't gone. He was alive, hunting, living. A whole year, it went on, before his brother bothered to mention it to him. Again, he was forgiven.

Dean bargained for his brothers soul with Death himself. He held Sam through his seizures, found Castiel to save him when the wall fell. Dragged him back, kept him human.

Everything for Sam.

Now he looked at the man his brother had become and he didn't know what he saw. Sammy was Sam, a grown man. He still had the soft voice and the sensitive eyes, but he didn't need Dean. He was too thin, his hair was too long, he was silent and apathetic. He was never overtly happy or sad. He had no spark, no joy in him. Dean didn't know his brother any more, and sadly, he may be fine with that.

Sam doesnt't seem angry or bitter, after all that would be understandable. Sam is an empty room. The lights are on but there's no one home.

Dean had come to look forward to the time they had apart. When had that happened?

He tipped the bottle back again, and let his mind wander.

He missed Lisa and Ben, but not in a hurtful way. He never had believed it would last, so it left him wistful, but no more.

He missed Bobby with an ache in his chest. He missed Bobby's place, his crappy cooking and his surly attitude. He missed the advice, and the support and the sense of home, of family. Bobby was gone. The world was an emptier place without him.

He missed Cas, he missed Cas a lot. If things were different he would call Cas down for no reason but companionship. He wouldn't tell him what he was feeling about Sam, he wouldn't have to. Because, even with all his faults, Cas was a better friend than Sam. He wouldn't make Dean talk about it, wouldn't pick it apart piece by piece. He would be quietly supportive in his itchy quirky way.

Cas had screwed up, but he just didn't care any more. They had all screwed up, and after all, it was about motive.

He missed Sammy. His wit and his banter. The wing man on his right hand, singing out of key, hogging the hot water. He even missed the practical jokes.

The saddest part for Dean, was that even though Sam was younger, smarter, stronger, and probably more likable, Dean knew he was the better brother. He didn't want to be, but he was. Everything was for Sam.

Maybe it was time for him to let go. Step away from Sam, let him have what he wants. Whatever normal there is out there for a hunter running from the game. He pictured Sam being worn by Lucifer, Sammy falling into the pit, then Sam without a soul. He stood and rubbed his hands over his face. He had his brother back, but it felt wrong. He wanted Sammy, and he had never come back from hell, not his Sammy, not his little brother.

The flap of wings sounded behind Dean and he felt the angel quietly approach. Dean turned to face him.

Cas stood, rumpled and wide eyed, tipping his head ever so slightly when he looked at Dean's ravaged face. He took one step forward and waited for his lead. His eyebrows raised when he saw tears fill Dean's eyes and spill over.

Dean fell to his knees and let the tears flow, painfully holding in the sobs trying to burst free. Cas dropped in front of him and placed his hand behind Dean's neck, drawing the sobbing man's face to his chest and holding him there.

Dean clutched at this friend and let it all go, all the years of pain and disappointment. Cas held him until he was too exhausted to support himself. With two fingers to his forehead he cast him into a deep dreamless sleep.

Cas lifted Dean to the bed and laid him on the faded linens. He sat on the bed, stared at the tear stained face and considered making his friend forget. This scene would play out again and again if he did. It was time to let him grieve, because that was what he was doing. Grieving for the boy that Sam was, so he could try to accept the man Sam had become. A very human, imperfect man. .

It was hard for him to watch his friend suffer, but he had to do what was right for him. He would listen for his calls, even the silent ones, and be there when he was needed.

After all, it was all for Dean.


End file.
